One Year Closer to Death, but at least I don’t smell like urine. Yet.

Turns out, according to my know-it-all husband, I am a year older than I thought I was. He was all smirky-faced when he told me, especially during the part right after I finished counting years on my fingers and looking up with a Whaaa?? expression, the part where he casually reminded me he is fourteen months younger than me. Which might make me some kind of cougar, I’m not sure. An Alzheimer’s cougar.

I don’t know what I’m doing to celebrate. Probably checking the batteries in my Life Alert. Eating Almond Roca while wearing a fuchsia polyester pantsuit with suntan knee-high hose. Ordering a commemorative Bob Hope plate off the Home Shopping Network.

The usual birthday hoopla.

Also a satyr wearing eye-liner and horns glued to his head at the Halloween Store tried to pick me up on Wednesday, so I’ve definitely still got it, right?

Birthdays are good because people give you stuff. Like, my dentist sent a postcard saying “Happy Birthday! It’s time to schedule a cleaning!” because he knows I am extra good at plaque, and not so good at flossing. Also I am probably getting the flu from my daughter soon, since she’s been sick with it all week, and there goes my swinging party lifestyle (Almond Roca, anyone?).

I got a title, too. I am now officially “Co-Dance-Captain”. Of the Christmas Carol Fezziwig dancers. Even better is that I can’t dance, despite my couch-bound passion for So You Think You Can Dance, but it’s okay, because it’s just a bunch of couples doing a lurching, thundering polka-thing around the stage in hoop skirts and Victorian suits. It’s not interpretive dance. I got the job because my partner can dance and he also shouts things like “Allemande left!” and “Do-se-do!” while throwing me around the floor, and I haven’t fallen down yet. I’m practically a professional dancer, I think you could say.

I’m not sure about my duties, but I’m definitely making myself a “Co-Captain” name tag, or a trucker hat so people will recognize my importance.

The coolest thing I’ve gotten so far came from Lana, who sent me a T-shirt in the mail after I won her contest. It’s got a picture of a pickle’s ass:
I’m wearing it to work today. With my pantsuit.

I'd say something super nice and complimentary about how very young you look but the branch of the family tree I'm from is the socially inept, reclusive, asshole branch. It's not really a branch at all. More like a dried up knot of squirrel crap.

Happy birthday. Oh, and don't you know that once you log, oh I think it's 20 hours, on the couch watching so you think you can dance, that makes you a professional dancer?After ten you are able to become a dance routine critic.

You've made it over the major hurdle of aging: Talking about one thing, and then sliding into a completely different subject that has nothing to do with the first one. Congratulations. Wish I had a photo of you in that hoop skirt, haha.

Seriously, I can't believe it's your birthday. I'm a little sad, because I would love to send you a card/gift, but I don't know where. That's one of the things about blogger buddies that bugs me. Anyways, it would probably be one of those funny cards making fun of your age, and how much joking can you take, so you don't really need a card like that. But Happy Birthday Vic! I hope you have a wonderful pampered day. xo

Why do I keep saying that? It's just so catchy. Then I imagine Kermit running out from behind the curtain with his floppy champion arms yelling "Yaaaaaayyyy!"

Clearly, I'm still asleep.

Happy Birthday!! You do look super young. I think you said you were older than me at some point, but next to you I look like maybe I've been livin a hard life on the rails, eatin beans and skippin town and droppin my g's. What's your secret, Vic? *chin in hands*

I don't even know when you wrote this so it's probably way past your actual birthday and now you're even older so almost dead. Crank up the oxygen and boogie down grandma. Hope you had a nice birthday!